


Bend My Finger Back (Snap)

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Past minor character death, Underage - Freeform, medically incorrect stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 06:27:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2611757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is only seventeen when he hits his lowest, losing his mother in a fire. After that, his family seems to fall apart -- his father is suddenly distant, and between therapy sessions and trying to struggle through each day, Dean and his brother Sam grow apart as well, even though they used to be more than close before the fire. It takes Dean two years to grow tired of this and decide to do something about his life for once... but there's no telling whether his decisions are the right ones and whether they will eventually lead to the happiness he desires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please consult [this post](http://viviansface.livejournal.com/51649.html) for additional warnings -- they are spoilers/plot twists, but you should check it if you really need to. Thank yous/other notes can be find there as well.
> 
> Go [HERE](http://necrora.livejournal.com/8876.html) to check out the art -- beware, though, it is a bit spoilery.

_“Ah, Harry, we have to stumble through so much dirt and humbug before we reach home. And we have no one to guide us. Our only guide is our homesickness.”  
Hermann Hesse, Steppenwolf_

\--

Dean has been silent since saying good morning to his dad; playing with his cereal, his spoon going in circles, clinking against the ceramic bowl.

The bags under his eyes should speak for him, really, but his dad seems to be in a chatty mood this morning, and as he sits down behind the kitchen table, he asks anyway.

“Nightmares again?” 

Dean looks up from the bowl. His left leg is slowly going numb because he’s been sitting on it for over five minutes, so he shuffles and sighs as he sits down on his right one instead. “Yeah,” he nods. 

“When’s your next appointment with your therapist?” Dad asks.

Dean can hear the disappointment in his dad’s voice. He’s not even hiding it anymore, like he used to. Two years ago, just after it happened, Dad would tiptoe around him despite his own grief. Two years ago, some things were different, but most of them were the same, exactly the same as they are right now in this moment.

And that’s a disappointment. Dean should have gotten better. After they carried him out of the burning house, Dean was lost for a few days. Wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t look at anyone. He was assigned a therapist (who was a complete dick even in his Dad’s opinion), and he was supposed to get better. 

Technically speaking, Dean _is_ better. He talks, he lives a considerably normal life – although he did have to drop out of high school and ever since then, it’s been a part-time job here and there and lying around most of the time, rubbing holes into the old sofa with his ass. The only thing that hasn’t gotten better is that he still needs his meds, and he still doesn’t remember the night the fire happened.

That’s why the fact his mom is no longer there, the fact she turned into dust before a priest could let her with his words echoing through the room, is still just an alien digging around his brain.

And it’s enough for his Dad to be disappointed. See, he won’t even say the therapist’s name. Sarah. He just won’t say it. It’s a miracle he acknowledges it at all today.

“I only saw her two days ago,” he mumbles. “Monday again, as always.”

“Good. Talk to her about it.”

Dean grits his teeth. _Of course. Because we don’t talk about it. We pretend it didn’t happen. We pretend we’re a happy family whose house didn’t collapse in a fire and that we didn’t lose her. We just don’t talk about the freaking fire._ The monologue presents itself in Dean’s head with surprising clarity – it wouldn’t be the first time his Dad said that, Dean has heard it every time he tried to talk about it.

“Yes, Sir.”

Dean picks up a spoonful of cereal and forces it into his mouth even though he doesn’t feel like eating at all. His stomach has been a numb piece of stone for the past few days anyway – he hasn’t felt actual hunger in forever. Better than starving, he likes to think.

He wishes Sam would actually sit with them sometimes. During school, he’s always out before Dean can catch him, and now when it’s summer, he sleeps until noon and Dean can beg him for a breakfast together and still not get it. Not that he actually tried.

“Listen,” Dad breaks the silence sharply and Dean startles. His eyes shoot up. “I wanted to tell you something, so you hear it from me and not some random kid on the street.”

“What is it?”

“A guy from Michigan bought our old house two days ago,” he tells Dean in a cold voice, informative rather than compassionate. “He wants to tear it down and build a new one. Got a family and a lot of money, apparently.”

“Oh,” is all Dean can truly manage.

He has been avoiding the ruin that used to be their house ever since it happened, but somehow, what he’s feeling could easily be compared to a punch in the gut. To think that the place his childhood is tied to won’t exist anymore – it almost sounds as if he himself could disappear any second, now that he won’t belong anywhere. He might not live in the house anymore, but just the fact that it’s still _there_ … even so many streets away, it still brings the idea of home. Of warm Sunday mornings, of him and Sam fooling around, the older they were the more daring they became. 

For a minute, he allows himself to think about his life as it once was; the old house with sunlight shining through it. He thinks of the blanket he and Sam used to hide under, remembers the taste of Sam’s mouth. All the places he tasted him; in a few months, they won’t exist. He feels the realization claw at his skin, carving _it’ll be like it wasn’t real at all_ into his skin.

Dean wonders what kind of expression must have taken over his face, because his Dad frowns as he finishes his scrambled eggs and swallows down the last piece of bread.

After he gets up and puts the used plate away, he actually comes up to Dean and places his hand on his son’s shoulder.

“You’re not getting bad again, are you?”

Dean desperately wants to shake his father’s hand off, desperately wants to get up and disappear. He feels like a child, and no wonder, with his father hovering over him like a mountain, reclaiming his superior position over and over again.

“No, I’m not,” he grumbles and sinks the spoon back into the half-empty bowl, just to distract himself so that he wouldn’t have to look up.

His dad sighs again. “Just take your meds, okay?” a gentle squeeze on Dean’s shoulder. “I’ll be back around five, as always. You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean answers, his voice noticeably louder. It’s a wonder he didn’t shout, really.

\--

Shortly after Dad leaves for work and the whole house shrinks around Dean so that its quietness hammers against his ears, Dean walks up to the door of Sam’s room.

He carefully puts on his happy face, despite the conversation he’d just had with Dad. “C’mon, wake up, lazy ass!” he shouts. Nothing. “It’s your last summer before high school is over! Come on, I’ll take you for a ride in Baby.”

Indistinct mumbling from behind the door is an enough reminder that cheerful tone won’t bring Sam back at all.

He drags his feet down the hallway, grabbing his keys. He might as well go for a ride on his own.

He feels sick when he realizes he’s glad Sam didn’t tag along. He wouldn’t have been able to keep his mask on, and for some reason, he felt like he couldn’t approach Sam without a smile on his face. He couldn’t stand the idea of letting even him down.

\--

The one thing Dean loves about having a car and a driver’s license is that he can simply get in and drive for hours without having a real destination. It’s what he does with a lot of his days.

There’s a half-empty pocket of Doritos, and what once used to be a six-pack is now two cans of beer on the passenger’s seat. It’s almost as if Impala was his other home – he sure feels that way when his fingers grip the wheel and he twists the key in the ignition, setting off.

He doesn’t feel particularly bad about leaving Sam alone in the house.

Dean has taught himself how to be alone, and he would bet half of the money he has to his name (which isn’t much), that Sam has done the same. That’s why they can exist in the same house, but rarely together.

Today, Dean drives out of town towards one of the fields surrounding it. 

It’s a considerably nice day – the sun is high by the time Dean brakes and the tires screech against the sandy road. Dean is glad he never grabbed his jacket – although, on second thought, it would be nice to lie down on it and look up, let the bright sky blind him.

He lies down on the ground, then, not thinking about bugs and dirt that could possibly crawl over his body, staining him more than he already is.

Instead of looking up, he closes his eyes. It’s strangely quiet here – the wind playing with the corn surrounding him, creating a nice background buzz. 

In a way, it truly hurts to remember the house as it once was – because that’s what Dean is thinking about. That’s why he’s in the mood he’s in. Because he keeps imagining a stranger walking up to the house that was once his safe place, blowing it to pieces with the air stored in his lungs or simply nudging the broken remnants of the house, and bringing it down. Just like that. Just so he can build another safe place, for someone else, and perhaps hope that they won’t ever ruin it. 

They most likely will. After all, that’s what people do. They ruin things.

Cold fear grips Dean tight, though, when he imagines this.

He feels the empty space in his memory more than usual today. 

The thought that he’s been struggling with for two years now, the one that’s bugging him so persistently today, is the thought that maybe, if he could just remember the night he lost so much, maybe it would all get better. Maybe, it would erase the disappointment from his Dad’s voice, maybe, it would bring Sam closer again. Maybe they could be together again, if only Dean remembered.

It’s a stupid thought, one he tries to shoo away every time it attacks him, because he knows there are more things broken than his memory. There’s nothing logical in believing that remembering would change anything.

Perhaps it’s not logic Dean has been trying to seek; it’s more of the one last straw a drowning man would hold on to.

With a sigh, Dean fishes a little something out of his pocket, clutching it in the sweaty realm of his palm. 

Meds. Dean has been on meds for way too long, and it’s been clouding his mind ever since. He doesn’t like it, and even after his Dad’s request that very morning, he starts to despise it wholeheartedly as he squints in the sun, glaring at it just lying in his hand.

The decision to not send it down his throat ever again is sudden and Dean is surprised to realize he has been planning to do so for a very long time. Well, long enough for him to be at peace with it. Strange – maybe he left the house already knowing he would end up tossing the capsule full of chemicals away, to lose it. 

A wave of relieved heat covers him when the pill is gone. A smile tugs at his lips when he daydreams, for only a second, of driving out here every single day and throwing his daily dose away, just like that. Every single sunny day.

A part of him wants to get up right now, so that he could start the engine and run away from this decision before it can burn holes in his brain and fill them with doubt, but he forces himself to lie back down, for only a second more.

With a certain nostalgia and sudden sentiment, he remembers the day he went to this field with Sam. Two years and then some months ago, they were here, and they were so close. They were both so playful, shouting ‘Marco!’ and ‘Polo!’ at each other, and then, when they bumped into each other, the bony structure of Sam’s teenage body bruising Dean’s back, fell into the corn in an embrace.

Happy, twisted days. Dean wants them back. Even after two years, he’s not ready to let go.

What if he doesn’t _have_ to? Dean feels strangely light after deciding to abandon the meds, and for the moment, everything looks possible. His breathing quickens, chest heaving in long excited breaths, and he sits up.

Suddenly, he knows all he needs to do is get up and go and approach Sam like an equal – not like a traumatized child, or like his Dad approaches Dean. He just needs to be honest. He needs to leave his mask behind along with his pills.

That’s doable. And it’s something.

\--

Dean gets back home when it’s a few minutes past four. For a second, it doesn’t register with him, but when he realizes he’d been gone for hours, he frowns. It felt like two hours at most, _at most_. Maybe he dozed off in the field – after all, it was a lovely day out, the air humid enough to make him want to close his eyes for a few moments.

Dean brushes it off.

He only has less than an hour till his Dad comes back from work, and he knows that if he doesn’t do it now, he won’t do it later. 

For the second time that day, Dean walks up to Sam’s door and knocks on it twice before he can so much as hesitate. He feels as if someone forced a handful of mashed potatoes in his mouth and he can’t speak, and when he finally swallows it down, his throat is raw.

“Sammy?” he calls, hoping it will carry through the wooden surface of the door. Seconds tick by in a quick manner, leaving Dean waiting. “I wanna talk to you.”

It must sound sincere and interesting enough for Sam to react, because Dean can hear shuffling behind the closed door.

“Come in,” comes Sam’s voice a second later and Dean takes a deep breath before he does so.

He hasn’t been in this room for ages. Weeks, probably. It looks the same, and Dean wishes he could say it’s a perfect replica of the one he had in the old house. It’s not, though. It’s a lot emptier, as if the one occupying the room was too afraid to put posters up or build a bookshelf after a delivery from Ikea because they were too scared of it being torn down again. 

There are a few books scattered across the floor, and a piece of clothing here and there, but other than that, there’s nothing special to make the room look and feel like _Sam_.

Sam himself is on his bed, knees pulled up to his chest, a book in his hands. It’s the Steppenwolf, Dean notices.

Sam’s pursed lips speak for him – he’s not going to encourage Dean before he at least shows he’s got the guts to actually speak this time. Small talk Dean can handle, he can handle faking cheerfulness for a certain amount of time, but the trouble calls when he tries to actually talk with meaning.

“Hey,” he says dumbly. 

He allows himself to flop down on the spinny chair by Sam’s table, and touching the ground with his toes, he moves from side to side, as if trying to distract himself.

“How are you doin’ these days?” he tries with a hand gripped tightly around his lungs, preventing him from taking a proper breath and for oxygen to travel up to his brain so that he wouldn’t actually talk nonsense.

Sam furrows his brow but he must see that Dean is serious about this, because he decides to be merciful and actually give an answer.

“I’ve been worse, definitely,” he says and puts the book away, placing it by his side on the bed. “Actually, I kind of regret not going with you in the morning. Sometimes I get sick of just sitting around, waiting for I-don’t-know-what to happen.”

Dean snorts. “That’s mostly why I go out, even though it’s just to drive around without anywhere specific to go.”

That might be the most personal piece of information he has given in a very long time. Even when talking to his therapist, he’s very careful about the words he might use, very careful about what he wants to let her in on. He’s mastered keeping everything to himself – and he’s mastered the ability to always say something without giving anything away.

The whole world falls silent for a moment. 

Dean can’t help but wonder whether they’re both thinking about the same thing.

Because now that he’s in Sam’s presence, now that he’s alone with him, once again being able to appreciate it and breathe in the typical smell of them being together, as if it was actually something real hanging in the air, he can’t do anything but think back to when they were together.

He almost involuntarily remembers Sam’s longish hair and how it felt slipping through his fingers; he remembers cutting it one day, just because they were both bored and Sam kept complaining about his neck being too hot. He remembers the tug of Sam’s fingers on Dean’s jeans as he pulled them down; he remembers the sun in their hair when they stopped in the next town and ate outside, laughing about Dean screaming when a bug crept up on his left arm. He remembers all the times they were together -- _how_ they were together, and it’s been so long since he felt the sense of belonging somewhere with someone that he wonders whether it had burned down along with everything else. Whether there is no coming back.

“I decided to not take my meds anymore.” Dean blurts it out without preparation; for a second, he’s not even sure if it wasn’t just in his head, but when he sees the look of concern form on Sam’s face, he knows he uttered it out loud.

Sam sits up and leans closer. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“You’ve never been on meds,” Dean snaps back. He realizes that was too defensive and he sighs, rubbing his face with his hand, momentarily hiding from the world. “Sorry. I just don’t feel like myself anymore and I want to see if this helps.”

“So you’re not sure it’s a good idea.”

Dean, not willingly but out of the need to be honest for once, shakes his head. “No, not really. But I need to do something and this sounds as legit as everything else at this point.”

Sam nods, as if considering it. “I guess you’re not telling Dad.”

Another snort. “Of course I’m not. He would shove the freaking stuff down my throat if he had to. Sometimes I think it’s just because he doesn’t want to deal with me.”

Sam hums. “Yeah, he’s like that. I think he’s got a handful of problems himself and there’s not much time left for his kids.”

“Which is fucking bullshit. When was the last time he really talked to you?”

Sam raises an eyebrow at Dean, and that’s answer enough. 

“I haven’t been very chatty either. Sorry.”

Sam shrugs. “As long as you come around eventually, I’m good. I know you have it hard. Harder than me. Maybe I should have taken the step and talk to you.”

Dean’s face scrunches up. “Now, don’t take it too far. I’m the one with guilt issues, okay? Let’s keep it that way.” They both laugh – the sound fills the house to the top, the walls not used to noise like this, and Dean almost fears it will blow the roof off. 

He can feel the blush crawling up his neck up up up till it colors his cheeks in gentle red. Dean watches in amazement as Sam bites down on his lip and bows his head, only to look up a second later through his bangs.

Something in Dean’s chest hitches. “I should cut your hair again. It’s getting too long.”

The right corner of Sam’s mouth goes up in an amused smirk. “Maybe you should. We’ll see.”

It’s a promise, Dean is sure of it. The little something that hitched and stopped working gets into motion again, making his heart beat twice as fast. It’s a promise for something more and nothing -- no one could tell Dean otherwise.

Embarrassed and red in the face, Dean smiles and gets up from the chair. He’s at a loss for words, desperately trying to come up with something to say. “Just don’t tell Dad, okay? I promise, if things start to get bad, I’ll start the meds again.”

Sam nods, picking up the book again, going back to it before Dean can even exit the room.

\--

That very night, Dean wakes up to a leg cramp. He automatically grits his teeth, but his eyes shoot open to the darkness of the room. He’s lying on his stomach, fists pulling at the bed sheets until the pain stops as abruptly as it started. Dean hates leg cramps.

In the span of those short four or five seconds that the cramp lasted for, small drops of sweat appeared on Dean’s forehead and he dries them away, rubs them against the pillow as he turns around to lie on his back instead. He checks the clock lying on his nightstand. A few minutes past three. He can hear his Dad snoring downstairs; incredible.

Usually, he’s able to fall asleep right after his muscles relax, but this time, even after ten minutes, he’s idly rubbing the previously cramping calf with the toes of his other leg. 

When he finally dozes off, a sharp noise wakes him up again. For a split second, he feels like he’s about fall off the bed and his feet kick out, but then his muscles relax and with a clearer mind, Dean realizes it was just a knock on his door.

It creaks open not even a second later. 

The room might be dark, but Dean knows it’s Sam. He hears his little brother close the door and then tiptoe barefoot across the room, till he hits his shin against Dean’s bed and swears under his breath.

“Sammy?” Dean half-whispers.

“Scoot,” Sam almost commands in a quiet voice and just like that, he’s pressing himself against Dean. His cold feet brush against Dean’s calves, his toes digging into his skin. “Had another nightmare,” Sam informs him as he buries his face in Dean’s neck, his hand across Dean’s chest.

Dean sighs; but it’s a sigh of relief, not anger or annoyance. 

Sam rarely comes into Dean’s room like this anymore. Ever since the fire – although sometimes Dean feels like he’s not allowed to even think about that – they’ve grown apart. Sometimes, they don’t talk for days, Dean finding sanctuary in his own room and Sam as well.

It’s strange but so good to be like this again. Dean feels like a plant that has just been watered – he perks up, comes alive when Sam shifts and his weight seems so heavy against Dean’s side. When Dean breathes in, it feels like fresh air penetrating his lungs, instead of the humid air of his tiny room.

“Do you still have nightmares?” Sam inquires, and when Dean turns to look him in the face, Sam’s expression is surprisingly clear and readable in the dark. It almost seems as if Sam stands out in the dark, some sort of light concentrated on his face and on his fingers clutching Dean’s t-shirt. Sam’s face is as clear as if it was dawn already.

“I do.”

Sam nods, serious. He rests his head against Dean’s shoulder eventually and they both fall silent. 

It takes Dean a while to get used to Sam being so close all of a sudden, his toes as cold as when he stuffed them under Dean's blanket. His breath evens at some point and he likes to think it syncs with Sam’s to the point where their lungs expand to let more air in at the exact same second. 

Dean is starting to doze off when he feels Sam move again, the hand that had been resting on his chest now moving downwards.

“I miss you,” Sam admits quietly, as if it was a dirty secret Sam didn’t even dare to share. 

But then again, that’s exactly what this is. It’s what it always has been and nothing could have prevented it.

Dean shudders at the thought.

“Don’t you miss me?” Sam bugs with something comparable to a pout on his face. His fingers are now hooked over the hem of Dean’s shorts, teasing. Before Dean can answer, they move over it and Sam palms Dean’s soft dick gently. “Seems like you don’t after all.”

Dean whines low in his throat, giving up. It’s impossible to resist Sam’s fingers and it’s impossible to deny the look on Sam’s face. His hips move, and one of his hands wraps around Sam’s neck, grabbing a fistful of his longish hair. He pulls him close, but Sam resists, staying in one place, doesn’t let Dean kiss him.

“Yeah, I miss you,” Dean breathes out, thinking that’s the issue. Sam purses his lips, though, as if the reassurance came too late, and Dean feels suddenly tense. This is not how they used to be – which should make sense. They’re not the same people. Sam is two years older, Dean hasn’t been with him in _two years_ , and he truly can’t help but wonder whether he’s bigger than he used to be. He must be, and Dean is haunted by this, too haunted to ponder their actions or think about how this is wrong and how they promised they wouldn’t do it again.

“Show me how much you’ve missed me,” Sam prompts. His hand stops, Dean fully hard now, and he shuffles on the bed until he’s sitting between Dean’s spread legs, waiting.

Dean frowns. “What do you –“

“Show me what you do when you miss me and want me here,” Sam says and it couldn’t be clearer now.

Sam’s words fit together like pieces of a puzzle in Dean’s mind. His face is covered in red when he realizes what Sam wants him to do, but they’ve been apart for so long he doesn’t consider refusing. It only takes a few seconds before he manages to move, momentarily stuck in a stone-like state.

He moves upward on the bed, staring at Sam positioned between his legs. What he does when he misses Sam, when he wants him here – which is embarrassingly often – is he touches himself. And he whimpers Sam’s name into the pillow, hoping the fabric will absorb it and store it for later or for somewhere where no one can hear.

Dean doesn’t know what he would say at all, and so he wordlessly slips his hand into his shorts and pulls out his cock, hard and impatient in his hand.

He starts working it in a quick pace – he hasn’t done it in a while, and he’s stupidly shy. Quick pace means quicker release means less time spent under Sam’s eager gaze. 

Sam doesn’t tell him to slow down. No, he just lets Dean look while pumping his fist, because that’s only fair.

And so Dean’s stare is as intense as Sam’s. He bites down on his lip, squeezing his fingers around the base of his cock, and when Sam mirrors this and abuses his lip as well, Dean lets out a quiet moan. Excitement boils in Dean’s belly and he starts thrusting into his own fist, an occasional sigh of relief escaping his lips.

Sam’s cold fingers wrap around Dean’s ankle and travel a few inches up. He squeezes Dean’s calf, near where it cramped seemingly oh-so long ago, in encouragement.

“Look at you, how gorgeous you are like this,” he mumbles. 

It’s frightening how different this is from the Sam that was two years younger; frightening how Dean used to be the one using these exact words with him such a long time ago when he wanted him to come. 

Sam’s fingers squeeze even more. “Come for me, Dean, come for me now.”

Dean’s eyes flutter close as he comes as if on command. 

When his muscles relax, Sam’s fingers relax as well and he moves on the bed again, cuddling up next to Dean. With no more commands and no more words on his lips, Sam picks Dean’s hand up and looking down, he licks the come off of his fingers, sucking each finger tenderly for long seconds, almost getting Dean hard all over again.

“I really do miss you,” Dean murmurs into Sam’s ear.

“I know, Dean.”

It feels like another secret is hanging in the air, and just when Dean is about to reach out and grab it, imprison it in his palm, they both hear their Dad snore downstairs so loudly it startles them. The secret, offended by the lack of attention, disappears before Dean can hold on to it. 

They look at each other and Dean almost feels as if this is the first time he ever looked into Sam’s eyes, _really_ looked at them and actually saw the universe in them.

He’s too big of a coward to ask what brought this change on, whether Dean’s honesty about the meds or his honesty in general lately has caused the sudden affection. So he doesn’t ask, but he holds Sam’s hands so close to his heart it must be truly obvious how happy it all makes him. 

For the first time in two years, he falls asleep without the heavy weight of the monster of what happened two years ago sitting down on his chest and controlling his breath. He falls asleep happy.

\--

Next time Dean wakes up, the alarm on his nightstand tells him it’s half past five.

The space beside him is empty, the bed looking just as ordinary as if Sam didn’t lie there mere minutes ago. Dean presses his hand against the wrinkled bedsheets, feeling how cold it is. Even as he pulls away, he feels the emptiness of the moment linger, cling to his fingertips.

He rolls around and buries his face in the pillow. It’s way too early to be up.

But what can he do when he keeps dreaming red, waking up to someone screaming.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean manages three whole days before fucking up.

He doesn’t even know, doesn’t even realize until his Dad knocks on his door on Saturday evening – which is suspicious enough as he never does it after agreeing that closed doors means no disturbing.

“I need to talk to you,” is all he says in a low voice, and Dean knows he’s in trouble. This gut feeling is only encouraged when his Dad disappears a second later and closes the door behind him; meaning they can talk in the kitchen. Kitchen means war-zone; kitchen means Dean doesn’t get to feel comfortable, as he would in his room.

Dean gulps and gets up from his chair where he’d been sitting, scribbling down lyrics from his favorite songs just to kill time and prevent himself from sneaking into Sam’s room. They talked earlier that day, when Dad went out to mow the lawn, holding each other for a few precious minutes, like they used to. 

On his way to the kitchen, Dean’s palms get sweaty from anxiety as his mind races in desperate need to figure out what he’s done to be told off like a child. He rubs his hands against his jeans, to no avail.

“I’m here,” he announces in a tiny voice, leaning against the doorframe, obviously hesitant to step into the well-lit kitchen.

Dean’s Dad is sitting behind the table, something in his hand that he’s toying with. He looks up.

Dean looks down, to the something in his Dad’s hands, and if you took a blade and tried to cut through his skin when he realized what it is, you wouldn’t draw a drop of blood. Dean goes completely still, freezing. 

The little something in John’s hands are Dean’s pills. Or rather, it’s the small white box that should have had two tablets less, if only Dean remembered to take them out the day before and today. But he didn’t go out, didn’t drive out to the field because his chest felt too heavy and his mind wanted him to stay home and hang around without meaning, and so he forgot about it completely.

“Here,” his Dad says and motions for Dean to take it. He looks genuinely scary as he reaches out with his hand, and Dean doesn’t dare to protest. He takes the pills and wraps his fingers around it, worried that his palms are so hot they might cause the tablets to dissolve into nothing. “Now check the plate.”

Dean does so, almost happy to be able to look away from Dad’s tired face. 

“How many are there?”

“Seven,” Dean breathes out, giving up.

“Why are there seven?”

“Because I…” Dean trails off, looking around as if the air should whisper the correct answer into his ear. As if there was a correct answer.

His Dad sighs. “Because you stopped taking them. Why would you do that?”

When their eyes meet once again, Dean sees the fight leave his Dad’s eyes and all that is left is tiredness. It shoves even the disappointment away, covering John Winchester’s face completely.

Dean feels guilty, but only momentarily. Then he remembers that he’s nineteen now, he doesn’t have to listen, doesn’t have to answer for this or that decision as he had to when he was a teenager missing the curfew by half an hour.

“Dad,” Dean starts, but he trails off when his own voice sounds shaky to him. He clears his throat and looks up, desperately trying to be brave. “Dad. I’m okay now. I’ve been okay for a while. I don’t want to stuff myself with that anymore.” As he says that, he sends the plate with pills flying till it hits the table, screeching against its surface as it moves another few inches.

“You’re okay, Dean,” John says and gets up from behind the kitchen table, but it’s not as menacing as it could be now that they’re both almost the same height, “because of the pills. If it weren’t for the pills, you would – “

“I would do what? What exactly?” Dean spits out, the long ago hidden anger now transformed into poison. “Maybe I finally wouldn’t live in a freaking fog all the time. Maybe I would actually remember, or insist on visiting mom’s grave, is that what you’re scared of? That for once, I would actually want to deal with things?”

“I won’t have this,” Dean’s Dad says exasperatedly. “I’ve paid a lot of money for you to get better. Thousands and thousands of dollars. I won’t let you throw it away just because you think you’re better than the pills that are keeping you sane.”

“I don’t even wanna talk to you if you’re just going to start throwing money issues around,” Dean grimaces. “And I told you, Dad. I’m _okay_. I stopped taking the pills five days ago and I’m _fine_.”

“Dean,” John almost whines, obviously feeling as if every single word he says hits a brick wall and doesn’t get to Dean. “Please understand, the pills _help you_. It takes more than five days to get bad, just – please, Dean. I just want the best for you. Please take the pills.”

Dean is not used to begging, all around. He is not one to beg himself, seeing it as weakness, and watching it happen in front of his eyes – especially with his Dad mouthing the word ‘please’ over and over again – is mind-blowing. It shakes the ground he thought he was standing still on, and he loses balance. His tongue is heavy against the roof of his mouth as he tries to react with something that would shout over Dad’s pleas and convince him otherwise.

Dean doesn’t have a lot of weapons in him. A person can easily be a weapon themselves, but it’s safer to hide weapons inside, and Dean doesn’t have a lot of them. His weapons are secrets, and occasional arrogance, his weapon is fear and sadness; they all seem to win a war here and there.

They are not enough here – they are, actually, the mine Dean and John both stepped on and now have to deal with the consequences.

The only other weapon Dean has is Sam. In his mind, he uses it often – to chase the demons of doubt and loneliness away – and using him against his Dad doesn’t seem quite right. They are a fragile family, three broken pieces trying to exist together, but Dean has run out of options.

“Even Sam thinks I can at least try to live normally, so I don’t see what the problem is. You just need to calm down and just, support me for once.”

There’s a lot packed into that sentence. 

Dean sees it all reflect on his Dad’s face – pain flashes across it in a surprising wave, and he is obviously taken aback, at a loss for words. He stares at Dean, the only detail that could possibly make this real life painting better would be his mouth slightly ajar.

“Dean,” his Dad breathes out, “Dean, Sam is –“ however John wanted to end the sentence, he never dares to. 

Dean thanks him in his head – thank you for not saying he’s a kid, a dumb kid, a dumb kid who doesn’t understand, thank you. Saying that would mean a lot more than Dean could handle.

John takes a tentative step towards his son, the plate with pills once again in his hand, once again offered to Dean. “Please, please just take your meds, okay? And everything will be fine.”

Dad’s stubbornness is indestructible, or so it seems – and it’s not what Dean would have expected. It sparks anger and hate in his gut, and he wants to kick and scream and run away all at the same time, hoping it would hurt his Dad as much as he’s hurting now, thanks to his parent’s words.

He grabs the plate out of his father’s hand and throws it at him, almost missing, hitting one side of John’s face and scratching his ear.

“Fuck you!” he yells, letting out all the anger he had stored in himself after every unsuccessful conversation, every repressed and hidden feeling, and every let-down he and his dad ever brought on each other.

It scares Dean, that he’s able to actually say those words out loud. He feels like a five year old tasting them in his mouth for the very first time, and irrationally – or maybe not – he gets scared a slap will follow. When he sees John reach up with his hand, a phantom of pain after a smack in his face hits him and he steps back.

He turns around fast enough to not see that his Dad reached up only to touch his own face where the plate of pills had hit him.

Dean runs, breathing panicky. He grabs the car keys and his jacket with shaky hands and slams the door behind him, hoping that would be an enough indicator that he doesn’t wish to be followed. It’s not like Dad ran after him, though.

He jumps into his car, hissing in pain when his ass hits something firm and pointy. He pulls up a book from under his butt, _Steppenwolf_ , and without thinking about it, he tosses it to the backseat.

He starts the car and drives away as fast as he can, the tires screeching against the asphalt of this lovely neighborhood that never felt like home.

\--

Dean pulls up into the nearest Walmart parking lot, surrounded by other cars. He turns off the engine and takes the key out, causing the lights to die out as well.

He leans back in the driver’s seat and closes his eyes, trying to count to ten. Even the voice in his head is shaky, just like his hands, legs, his whole being. That did not go well.

The street lamps and all the light radiating off of the building in front of him pierce Dean’s eyes when he finally opens them a few seconds later. 

He stopped counting at seven. He couldn’t get past seven. He simply couldn’t, it wasn’t an option. His brain broke off and scattered into ten thousand thoughts, and he couldn’t possibly get past seven, even though he tried.

Dean’s hatred for his father sits low in his stomach solid as a rock. It weighs him down and pushes him deeper into the seat, to the point where Dean has to fight to stay sitting upright. 

When his phone rings, Dean has to admit to himself that he has no idea how long he’s been sitting here, hiding in the relative dark of the large parking lot, people passing by without even registering an old black Chevy Impala right next to them. He could have been here for minutes, hours. He wouldn’t know.

However, as he fishes the ringing phone out of his pocket, he notices his hands aren’t shaking so visibly anymore, and his voice doesn’t trip over anxiety and stress either. 

“Hey.” Sam’s voice calms Dean down right away. “Are you okay?”

“I’m at Walmart,” Dean tells him. “The parking lot. I’m – I’m fine.”

“I heard your fight with Dad. Sorry I didn’t come to the rescue.”

“It’s okay,” Dean shushes him quickly, “It would have only been worse. I’m glad you stayed out of it, really.” Dean allows himself to listen to Sam’s breathing for a second before asking, “You think you could sneak out of the house? I could pick you up and we could just… get lost for a few hours.”

“Sure, Dean. I’ll wait outside.”

This one time, Dean is glad he can drive the car with a clear destination in mind. He still feels as if he was just floating through space, through the distance between Walmart and the house, but he gets there nonetheless, his senses betraying him not even once.

Dean breathes out in relief when he sees Sam standing there, hands in his pockets, swaying on his heels. He’s hiding just out of the reach of the street lamp, its light creeping up onto the tips of his shoes. Dean pulls up next to him and reaches across the car to help Sam open the door although it’s not necessary.

As they move, Dean’s eyes lock on the house, so unfamiliar even after so many months spent inside its walls. He thinks he sees a dark silhouette through the kitchen window, thinks it’s his father pouring a drink down his throat. Before it can sting him, they drive past and Dean doesn’t dare to check the rearview mirror.

\--

For a few numb, silent minutes, Dean just drives them around the block, letting it empty him. At some point, though, he sub-consciously takes a turn and they both know right away where they’re headed.

“Are you sure you want to go back?” Sam asks in a quiet voice. Dean doesn’t register worry or anxiety in it, though, so he doesn’t worry and fret either.

“I feel like we need to talk,” Dean offers.

“We do. It still feels like a safe place to you, though? After all this time? I mean, it’s nothing but a ruin. It’s been so long, Dean.”

“I know,” Dean replies, his eyes glued to the road in front of them. The sun is setting behind them, it’s almost dark, everything is covered in melancholy tones, but Dean’s knuckles go bright white when he grips the wheel tighter. “I haven’t been there since – “

“I was wondering,” Sam cuts him off, cruelly taking the chance of talking about that night away, stealing it right from in between Dean’s fingers. “I was wondering when you would take us there.”

Dean shoots him a side glance. “You should have told me you wanted to go back. I would have taken you months and months ago.”

Sam shakes his head, leaning against the passenger door with all his weight. “You weren’t ready. You’re ready now, so we’re going. That’s what matters.” Sam’s hand comes to rest on Dean’s thigh, and Dean can feel the light touch even through the denim of his jeans. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m _good_ ,” Dean reiterates what he’d said at least five times tonight. “And I told Dad the same damn thing. I’m fine. I’m not a child. I can handle myself without having to swallow pills for breakfast.”

Sam smirks as if he’s been let in on some secret he’s not allowed to share with Dean.

“You’re jumpy. I meant, how are you feeling after the fight? You’re not _really_ running away, right?”

“I guess not,” Dean shrugs, “We’ll see. I just need one moment of quiet, Sam, to finally hear my own thoughts without something numbing it.”

Sam’s fingers moves across Dean’s thigh, quiet and light like five little snakes twisting and crawling around. “I’m here for you. I’ve always been, you know.”

“Yeah.” Dean tilts his head a bit, considering his next words. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

“It’s okay. A lot of things happened, you were – well. I’m just glad you decided to be honest with me, and to come back to me.”

A small smile creeps onto Dean’s face, and if he could, he would lean in to the touch. He can’t , so he only steps down on the gas pedal.

\--

They enter the house with caution. Dean is aware that what remains standing of their old house could very well collapse all around them and smash them to pieces, but the invisible string in him – someone is pulling at it, and Dean can’t help but follow and disappear in the dark ruin.

He half expects to step in and be met with the old familiar smell of what used to represent home when he was little. It’s a let-down when that doesn’t happen.

They step into something that is now unrecognizable but they both know it used to be the hallway.

Dean’s steps lead him right into what used to be the living room. He leaves Sam behind and feeling the dirt underneath his shoes, he moves through the ruin. 

He had been told that the fire took the living room down, and when Dean steps in, the scenery in front of him definitely corresponds with that. The wall with windows, where his mom used to put dark velvet curtains up, no longer exists. Dean could simply step into the backyard without opening and closing any doors.

The fact that he can hear a dog outside bark as if he was right next to it makes Dean cringe; his whole body jerks when he realizes there is nothing, _nothing_ about this place he would call home. Not anymore. It’s not what he had imagined when he spent hours thinking about coming back to this place. He was so sure it would speak to him and that he would remember – but not even this place rings true anymore.

Dean retreats from the living room quickly, almost tripping and falling into the moss growing wild and happy on the floor. 

He lets out a held-back breath when he’s in the safety of the ruined hallway – anything is better than the cold unfamiliarity of the living room.

“Jesus Christ, I can’t believe this place still stands. How come they never tore it down?”

Sam motions towards the walls that are still somewhat standing. Dean looks on, noticing the graffiti covering them for the first time.

“I guess no one ever cared. Teenage kids must have loved hiding in this place.”

They step further into the house together, Dean thinking that sounds dangerous enough to make someone want to bring the place down entirely.

It only takes seconds until they get to the staircase. Dean’s eyes want to follow the stairs up, but the only step still standing is the very first one. Beyond that, there’s a hole that almost looks like a portal to another world. Dean looks up and squints at the non-existent ceiling. But he knows, he knows there used to be a ceiling, and up there, there used to be Sam’s room and their stolen moments together.

“They said the stairs were gone in minutes. Sometimes I can’t believe they got you out of there,” Dean utters, sudden chills making the hair on his arms stand up. 

Silence follows Dean’s statement, and it carries on until Dean isn’t staring up and centers his attention on Sam standing next to him.

“Did they?” Sam asks, his face a question mark.

Dean frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Did they get me out of there, Dean?”

Dean snorts, his face scrunching up in a grimace. With furrowed brow, he looks his brother up and down. “You’re standing right here, aren’t you? Of course they got you of there, Sammy. Don’t be silly.”

“I might be standing here, but that doesn’t mean they got me out. They didn’t, Dean,” Sam tells him gently and looks at Dean questioningly. “They didn’t. I died here.”

“Sammy,” Dean laughs, but a pang of anxiety and fear threads through his voice in a distinct pattern. “Stop fucking with me.”

“Check your phone,” Sam prompts him, and even though his voice sounds kind enough, Dean can’t miss the hidden command in it.

“Check my –“ When he sees the look on Sam’s face, so obviously serious and stone-like, not even one muscle moving, he sighs. Dean really feels jumpy now, and his fingers take on the same shakiness they did back after he stormed out on his Dad. “Jesus, okay. Checking it now.”

He pulls it out of his jeans’ pocket and presses the unlock button impatiently. He frowns when the screen stays the same pitch black.

“It’s dead,” Dean comments.

“Turn it on and then check your last call.”

The frown on Dean’s face deepens as he does what he’s told. It feels like it takes three thousand years till his phone starts up, and he gets older and older and older in the span of only a minute, until he’s only an old shrunken wrinkled man with a little heart beating too fast by the time he goes to check his calls.

His last received call dates back to Tuesday when his Dad called him to ask whether Dean would mind if they had Chinese for dinner. Dean remembers that call – remembers it as clearly as the one he had with Sam barely an hour ago, except there’s no evidence for that one. And he didn’t delete anything, he didn’t even touch his phone.

“That’s impossible,” Dean breathes out, too scared to even look up at his brother who may or may not be there at all.

Sam’s voice is disgustingly comforting when he speaks up again. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

What – what could he possibly be sorry for? For taking Dean’s phone without him noticing and deleting his last call to fuck with him here? What else could he be sorry for? Because that was the only rational thing that could be going on right now, it’s not like Sam could _actually_ not be his Sammy, not be real, it’s impossible to even think that Sam might have died here and Dean was too much of a coward to live with it so he decided to live with his own made up version of him.

“It’s okay,” Sam says, but even the way he’s keeping his distance, almost as if he were in _Dean’s head_ and knew that was expected of him instead of a hug and comfort, is nauseating. “You needed me here, so you made me be here. For you. It’s okay, Dean.”

“Sammy, you’re not – you are – “

Dean makes himself stop mid-sentence as he remembers the fight with his dad. _Dean, Sam is -_

Dean is terrified when he realizes that he didn’t mean to finish that sentence with “just a kid”. He meant to finish that sentence with “dead”. 

Dean, Sam is dead.

In this moment, Dean knows it to be true. 

He still doesn’t remember the fire, or the way it crawled across the house and knocked on Sam’s door forcefully, but now he remembers the rest. He remembers his father’s swollen, red face – probably from crying – telling him that Sam was in there too when it happened. He remembers countless conversations he used to have with his therapist back two years ago about his dead brother. He remembers eavesdropping on his dad and his therapist, as they discussed that not reminding Dean of Sam’s death might be the best solution.

Because he kept forgetting. His mind just refused to believe that his heart could have lost so much. Dad agreed that day – it was the last time Dean heard Sam’s name, if he wasn’t the one muttering it idly. Dean wants to laugh when it gets to him, how ridiculous all that is – they never even talked about Sam, _ever_ , and Dean finally realizes it wasn’t grief on Dad’s part – just the fact that one of his sons is no longer there and he is not allowed to talk about it with his other one.

It makes an awful lot of sense, even in Dean’s mind – the mind he shouldn’t even trust anymore, but he does, because although insane, it’s the only thing he’s got left. He forgets about the phone in his hand. 

For a second, all he can think about are the pills, and how he could only talk to Sam after he decided to drop them. He thinks back to those days where they never talked – all days he didn’t forget to swallow his morning pill like a good boy. And he, with a blush, remembers all those days he didn’t even say hello to his brother, how he excused it with not being in the mood, with Sam being out of the house… while he was never truly there. _When was the last time Dad talked to you?_ Dean remembers asking. He didn’t get an answer. Because the last time Dad talked to Sam was two years ago and an imaginary brother wouldn’t dare to be so rude as to remind Dean of that.

It feels as if centuries have passed since Sam opened his mouth to speak. 

Dean’s throat is dry; he feels like someone forced his mouth open and then poured dust and sand in it without offering a drop of water to swallow it down with.

Dean looks at the shadow of his brother. “Can you tell me what happened that night?”

“That’s not the only thing that’s important. There’s something leading up to that, too, that you should know about.”

“Can you tell me?” Dean tries again, suddenly very tired. He feels his knees give in, but he forces himself to stay standing, at least for one more second, and then another, and then another.

Sam shakes his head. “I’m you. And you can answer that for yourself. You can remember, if only you let yourself.”

Dean grits his teeth, suddenly wanting to punch Sam in the face, but he knows it wouldn’t do anything. He would literally fly his fist through thin air, no matter who he thinks is standing in front of him.

And so he does let himself remember instead. The moment he thinks about it, just a clear and quiet – I wanna know – it comes to him.

\--

They are squeezed in Sam’s bed, next to each other, fingers entwined like in the worst romantic movie not one member of their family would ever watch. It feels normal, though, and warms Dean’s heart to the point where he doesn’t want to move ever again.

Dean, at the back of his mind, knows that what they are doing is dangerous. This is not the back of his car on an empty old road, this is not having the whole house to themselves. Their parents are downstairs, not so far from them, and even though they locked the door, Dean feels like the lock is not keeping the world away from them, not in the slightest.

He is too comfortable to do anything about it, though. Every time he breathes in, it’s Sam’s smell that fills his nostrils. The room is packed with it – it’s radiating off of the walls, the bedsheets, and after all, Sam himself is right next to Dean.

“I wish we could always be like this,” Sam mutters, almost in the mean pouty tone only teenagers master and can handle with precision. 

Dean sighs. “C’mon, Sammy, it’s not that bad. We get to spend plenty of time together, don’t we?”

Dean can feel his brother shrug next to him. “I guess. But we still have to hide.”

“You understand why we need to keep this away from Mom and Dad, right?” Dean asks cautiously, worried that Sam might explode if he felt like he was being accused of not understanding.

Sam huffs out an annoyed breath. “Of course I do. I’m not an idiot. I just wish… it’s just that sometimes I wish they weren’t here, so that we wouldn’t have to hide.”

Without a word, Sam shuffles on the bed. He pulls his hand away, breaking the comfortable warm connection, and he moves downwards. He’s two years younger than Dean, only fifteen, but he’s already taller than him. Tall and skinny, but lovable. 

He rests his head on Dean’s chest like a little kid, and Dean wonders if he’s going through the phase when you simply love, like he did – it’s so hard to sustain all the love, sometimes it’s better to just rest your head for a while. Dean almost giggles when he realizes he’s going through the very same phase. He only rests his hand on Sam’s shoulder, as if trying to keep him close and next to him.

“Yeah, I know,” Dean nods, trying to ignore Sam’s fingers that are now dancing across his belly as if his younger brother was trying to play the piano.

A few minutes pass in silence, and worry covers Dean. Maybe this isn’t what Sam wanted to hear. Sometimes, and he knows this very well, silent compassion won’t cut it. So he takes a deep breath and with sweat breaking out above his upper lip, maybe the hot day causing it, maybe his worry, he speaks up again.

“But imagine, Sammy. I’m eighteen next year. And then, after you finish high school, we can just… get up and go.” Sam perks up immediately, his head shooting up, his chin buried in Dean’s chest as he looks up at Dean and listens intently. “You should go to college, and I could go with you. You could find something far away from here and we could tell people we are together instead of telling them we’re brothers. We could live a completely normal happy life in just a few years. You’re a smart-ass, I can practically see you in a suit, lawyering and stuff.”

“That’s an awfully long time away,” Sam comments, but it must have been what he wanted to hear anyway, because he leans in and kisses Dean playfully. 

Dean smiles into the kiss, his hand rubbing circles into Sam’s back and then running down, stopping at Sam’s bony hips, locking there. “I know,” he mutters, his eyes already fluttering closed to enjoy the kiss, “Can’t wait already.”

Sam laughs into Dean’s mouth, the vibrations travelling down Dean’s throat and setting his belly on fire with want and anticipation.

“I just wish,” Sam breathes into the kiss as he holds himself up so that he can slide between Dean’s already parted legs, “It could be sooner.”

Dean holds back a moan when Sam moves his lips down to Dean’s neck, licking and sucking. It’s incredibly easy to stuff his hand down Sam’s jeans – they are too big on him – and squeeze, the skin on Sam’s ass smooth and warm.

“Ah,” Sam lets slip out of his mouth and his hips jerk forward. This would be the first time. They’ve never actually done it in a bed. It’s too tempting. “I just,” Sam says between kisses that he peppers Dean’s neck and jaw with, “Want you with me – always – not in a few years.”

Perhaps that’s when an idea starts to root in Dean’s brain. 

He’s currently too busy to pay attention to it, too full of love and gracious emptiness, but he will go back to it later. He will.

\--

“Dean.” Sam’s voice carries over, his impatience almost tangible, as if it was liquid Dean could bury his fingers into and it would chew off his fingernails. “We need to talk about the fire.”

“We don’t talk about the fire,” Dean begs, head hanging low. 

He no longer finds solace in those words. They don’t ring true. He never believed them in the first place. It was his dad’s mantra, after all, not his. He liked to listen to it and follow it, occasionally, but as he tries the words in his mouth, it’s easy to figure out he doesn’t really mean them.

He has always wanted to talk about the fire, and he has always been terrified of doing so. 

The ghost of Sam’s fingers cradles his chin and brings it up gently. Dean wonders how someone who is a fantasy can touch him with those icy fingers, and how it is possible at all that Dean feels the touch on his skin. He shudders, even though sweat is now covering nearly every inch of his body, pumped by adrenaline.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Sam comforts him, his thumb caressing Dean’s cheek, cooling it. “Tell me about the fire.”

Dean finally looks up. Before his eyes set on Sam’s face, they land on the wall behind him, blackened from being licked by the vicious fire. 

“Someone finally bought this ruin, you know,” Dean mumbles instead, and he gulps. “Dad told me a few days ago.” He’s terrified. It’s quiet all around them, no cars driving up the street, no TV humming in the background, and Dean can hear the persistent beat of his heart in his ears. It sounds like it’s about to explode.

Sam’s expression remains the same, but it feels like his fingers are now sinking in to Dean’s skin like knives, their press hard and constant, reaching the edge of uncomfortable.

“The fire, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes flutter closed. There’s no escaping. He’s been running away from this for two years, and he knows that as soon as the words are out, it will sound anticlimactic and stupid.

“I set the fire,” he breathes out and now, when he needs to feel Sam’s fingers against his skin the most, his little brother lets go. Dean is afraid of opening his eyes – what if he’s not there anymore, what if the truth drove him away? – but he makes himself do so. 

“It’s okay,” Sam nods. “I know why you did it. You did it to protect us.”

“I didn’t know you were in the house,” Dean says, “You were supposed to be out with someone. Why were you in the house, Sammy? Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice trips on a held-back sob.

Sam hums. “If you waited an hour or so, I would have been out. It was a slight change of plans. Charlie was just late. I wasn’t planning on staying home that night.”

Dean’s laugh bubbles up his throat as if he was coughing up blood. “It was supposed to be us, Sammy, not me and dad. Not me and dad.”

“I know, Dean,” Sam sighs and his fingers are back on Dean’s face, once again cooling it and bringing his attention to him. Dean’s vision is blurred by tears, but he sees Sam lean in and the press of his mouth against Dean’s lips is too familiar to not recognize it. 

He wants to disappear in the kiss. He desperately wants to get lost in it, one last time, he wants one last kiss and he wants it to last for minutes and he wants it to fill his mouth and he wants to forget that once the kiss is over, this all is over.

None of that happens, though. 

With the press of Sam’s lips against his, Dean remembers the night. _The_ night. The night of the fire.

He had it all planned. Mom and Dad were supposed to stay home and Sam was supposed to go out. Dean knew how he would do it, and in his mind, he was perfectly clear about why he wanted to do it. He loved his parents – they weren’t perfect, but they were his, and Dad told him about Metallica and Mom made Dean feel safe – but he loved Sam more, and he knew what he’d rather sacrifice. 

Mom used to light vanilla scented candles in the living room. That was Dean’s certainty, something he could build this on. 

With Sam out, Dean thought it would be easy to set the house on fire. Mom was in the bathroom taking a bath and Dad was in his ‘office’, taking care of his fishing attire, probably preparing hooks and food. Sam left half an hour ago, Dean heard the door slam. Or so he thought.

The only thing he wasn’t mistaken about was his mom taking a bath. The rest got mixed up. Sam was still hiding in his room, as he always did during hot summer days where moving your hand caused sweat to break out on your skin. It was Dad who slammed the door half an hour ago, leaving to buy stupid mangos. Dean didn’t know that at the time. He thought his set up was perfect.

He had gasoline, had stored it in the Impala’s trunk for about two weeks now. That’s how long it took him to get up and just do it. He thought it would work. 

He poured some near the bathroom door. On the stairs. Even in front of Sam’s room upstairs, so the fire would reach it eventually. He left a trail behind, and when he got to the living room, he used the last drops on the curtains. He took one of the candles, as if not using matches or a lighter would take some weight off of his tired shoulders, and he held it up to the dark velvet fabric. It reacted immediately.

The fire spread within minutes. It’s amazing how quickly it traveled from room to room, poisoning the wooden floor and the walls one by one. 

He was just walking out, ready to act out his cry for help, when he heard a scream. For a split second, he thought it was Mom letting all the remaining air out of her lungs with a shriek before it got filled with smoke. But it wasn’t Mom. It was high-pitched, but it wasn’t mom. Dean knew this scream.

Knew it from when Sam fell off a tree and broke his leg. He knew it from when Sam accidently touched the oven when it was on, and his scream of pain filled the house. He knew it from when they fucked for the first time a few months ago in a field, and afterwards, Sam walked up to a nearby tree and kicked it for minutes, screaming. This was Sam’s lungs producing the inhuman noise.

One sharp intake of breath later, Dean – his nostrils filling with smoke – made his decision. Fear gripping his guts, making him feel like the world was just a bubble about to burst and he was just a random person in the audience watching the spectacular show, he ran back into the house.

He was late. The stairs had collapsed under the weight of the fire, the wood creaking and breaking in its power. Dean tried anyway, but before he could reach Sam’s door, he heard himself scream as well and the smoke drew a curtain over his mind. 

He floated in between consciousness and fainting, and when he felt strong arms grip him and carry him out of the house, his mind decided for the latter. He passed out, alone. So utterly alone.

“You can let me go now,” Sam breathes into his mouth, making Dean feel like someone just poured ice cubes into his mouth. “Or you can let yourself go,” his brother adds, his hands gripping Dean’s hips. His lips are still hovering over Dean’s when he finishes, “Check your pocket.”

Dean’s shaky fingers bury into his jacket pocket, wrapping around a tiny pack of matches, feeling their rough edges underneath his skin.

Unlike Sam, it is very real.

He swallows and pulls the matches out, ready.

THE END.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed the fic, I might have some bonus stuff for you, like a few songs, a book, and a movie. 
> 
> [Finger Back by Vampire Weekend](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2oPbpPIG_mQ) was originally a kind of random song I snagged my title from. The more I listened to it, though, the more I loved it and the more sense it made in my head.  
> [Fire Meet Gasoline by Sia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UvRphO1Mh0I) is atmospherically off and perhaps too literal, but I love it very much anyway.  
> [Things We Lost In The Fire by Bastille](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oYOZz7LcSwg) is a song I'm currently obsessed with and it's my everything, basically.
> 
> [We Were Liars by E. Lockhart](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/16143347-we-were-liars) is a book I read back in June and disliked most of it. Thinking back to it now, though, I think it might have inspired me to write this. Somehow. I don't know.
> 
> [A Tale of Two Sisters](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0365376/?ref_=fn_al_tt_2) is a brilliant Korean horror movie that I watched shortly after finishing the fic, and it made me think of it -- although, the movie is much much better.


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